GW Lightning Arc Side Stories CRISPS
by LoveyouHateyou
Summary: Treize and Zechs having a lighter moment... junk food anyone? Rated merely for male male affection.


**Lightning Arc Side-Stories – Crisps**

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Catching our fav General and his Second in a lighter moment…  
Rated M merely for mentioning male-male affection.

Have fun, folks.  
Cheers, LH

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Zechs woke on the leather couch in Treize's office. Tense and wide awake in an instant, he remained motionless for a few moments to listen into the stillness. Assessing all the little sounds that wove a blanket of silence, filing away the images they painted in his mind, neatly classified and labelled, until the sum of this quick, instinctive analysis told him this place held no danger. Soldier habit ingrained too deeply to be cast off even in this virtually bomb-safe bunker of a place.

He relaxed and wrinkled his nose a little – headquarter pong, he mused, glancing through long lashes, eyes still half-closed. The smell of immaculately shined, expensive wood, dried roses, boot polish, stale coffee. Laced with the faint whiff of carpet cleaner and used uniforms, plus freshly pressed shirts… A heady mix, and he disliked it. It reminded him of how deep in the bowels of the subterranean floors Treize's suite of rooms was buried. He hated enclosed spaces such as this – he felt smothered, almost claustrophobic. Funny, it crossed his mind, it never happens aboard a spacecraft…

The security chief of staff had brokered no argument when setting out the reasons for his rather forceful recommendation that Treize needed to relocate. Treize decided it was a waste of time to discuss the matter, and had moved in a matter of hours, in spite of the many crates of paperwork, disks and tapes he personally packed and labelled neatly. He had worked systematically and overseen the moving of his personal archive like a hawk, and then he had crashed out on the bed for half an hour before Une sent an adjutant. The cadet was awestruck when Zechs answered the door, and handed him the tray with immaculately sealed food containers. While Treize went to take a shower and change into a fresh uniform, Zechs carefully inspected the packages until he was satisfied that the seals were unbroken, bearing Une's signature, and the contents safe.

And now… he turned carefully, curious how he would catch Treize in a moment when His Excellency believed himself unobserved…

The soft, almost rhythmical rustling of something like foil underlined the hushed stillness of the windowless room. It was dark. The rhythmic blinking of red numbers displayed on the surveillance screen by the entrance door showed that it was late. Treize sat in front of his computer, as he did so many nights, the screen casting a bluish hue over his slighly hunched figure. His hair was still dark with dampness from the shower, sticking to his temples and falling over his brow in a rather adventurous fashion. He had unbuttoned his jacket and slightly loosened his cravat.

He was eating straight from one of the containers while focused entirely onto the screen.

Zechs felt a rather incredulous smile tug at his lips. Crisps. Of all things. Treize was eating crisps.

Suddenly, Treize stilled, and then, without taking his eyes off the screen, he stretched out one arm, dangling the almost empty foil packet between thumb and forefinger. "Want some?"

"Do you always know what I'm doing, even when you're not looking?" Zechs mumbled, scrambling into a tight crouch. His head hurt. Still. Hours after only a light simulation flight under the influence of the Zero system. He began to massage his temples in firm, even circles.

"Yes," Treize goaded gently. "I believe that is part of my job."

"What, to spy on me?"

"Ay, Miliusha… come, eat some of those." Treize shook the packet, the slightest hint of impatience in his gesture.

"Are you trying to shut me up with this junk now? You used to have better methods."

Treize sighed and set the packet onto the desk. "It's food. It's sealed, and therefore safe to eat. Gods, I'm sick of eating conserves and feeling so terribly safe."

"Don't knock it," Zechs shot back quietly. "And this is not food. Do you know how late it is?"

"…and they feed me and spoil me and keep me nice and warm until it's time to lead me to the slaughter… well, we shall see yet who leads whom…" Treize seemed amused.

Zechs was not. "Shut. Up."

Treize met his words with silence. The endless list of names on the blue screen kept scrolling past his gaze, his eyes intense and wide, allowing the columns of letters to seep right into his mind.

"Please." Zechs got up and, bootless but in grey issue wool socks, padded across to his friend. "Stuffing your face with crap doesn't help, right? You'll get too heavy for your jet."

Finally irritated enough to break away from the screen, Treize glared up at Zechs. Who leaned over him, both hands settling on his shoulders, messy blond ponytail brushing over reddish hair and a pale, stubbly cheek. "Even generals sleep, sometimes. What use is it to anyone if you die, fat and alone, of exhaustion?"

"Miliusha!" Treize appeared torn between anger and laughter.

Zechs shrugged, the expression of his youthfully soft face rather close to a sulk. "Well, it's true. You'll spoil your fitness scores, the doctor will tell you off, and your jet will exceed its fuel allocation…"

"It is not true, and you know this very well."

"Not to mention that our budget has been slashed. You refuse to face the truth. You're vain."

"Oh, now who is talking." Treize pulled at a few strands of silverblond. "The man who carries hair conditioner in his survival pack."

"I have to."

"You could cut it off."

"No!"

"They call you a fairy behind your back."

"But not to my face because they know I'd kick them to L2 and back."

The stared at one another for a heartbeat, before they both smiled. Treize with a wicked edge, Zechs blushing fiercely right to his hair-roots. "I'm tired."

"Oh?" Closing his eyes, Treize let his head tilt back. Zechs could have sworn it was no coincidence that his friend's head landed exactly in his crotch, ground against it a little, and settled firmly against his middle. "Yes," Treize commented, the smile deepening until a small dimple appeared on one cheek. One only, giving his features an irregularity, a tiny break in theperfect facade,that made Zechs want to study him over and again.

Or perhaps poke his finger into this dimple, or dip his tongue in… _don't go there_, he berated himself, _not now_. "Yes," he snapped, slightly irritated, "what do you expect after a day like this? Meetings, negotiations, tedious paperwork, and your forced march of a removal… I feel rather done in."

"This, my dear Colonel, appears to reveal a regrettable lack of stamina. You should try crisps."

"Lack of… why, do theyturn you on of late?"

"Are you jealous of crisps now?"

"I didn't know you had a food fetish." Zechs quirked a little grin. "General, sir."

"It's not my only one," Treize countered slyly. "We should talk…"

Zechs blushed some more and got cross. "Damn you…" He tried to disengage, but Treize swiftly caught his wrists and pulled him closer instead.

"Now, Colonel, do control your temper a little. You have a reputation for being hot-headed."

Zechs tried to keep his middle from making contact again, but felt ridiculous standing there half bent-over, his bottom sticking out. So he simply shoved back against Treize, perhaps with a little more force than strictly necessary to regain his balance. "Stop the hell leading me on," he growled. "I'm just trying to follow your orders, sir, by not fornicating while on duty. Let alone seducing my CO to lend an actual base of facts to those rumours that are circulating madly anyway… will you stop this then?" A twinge of exasperation colouring his tone now.

Treize stilled, his cheek pressing slightly against the join of Zechs' thigh and hip. He sighed softly, and then straightened, letting go of Zechs' hands. "You are right," he said contritely. "I should not tempt you… or myself, for that matter."

A small, tense silence, then Zechs shook his head. "Not if you won't follow through."

"I can't afford it," came the sullen rejoinder. "Neither can you. I might survive a storm like that, even though I'm not keen on it. But your position would become… untenable. You would lose your command simply because it would be too difficult to keep your troops at a respectful distance. And how would you like it when everything you earned, hard enough if I may add, were attributed solely to your sleeping with your CO?" Treize pondered for a moment. "It's a shame though. I'd rather bed you… ah, what a deplorable waste of our youth…"

Zechs laughed, returning to his task of kneading Treize's shoulders. "What set you off?"

Treize hung his head, the tension melting from knotted muscles under Zechs' firm, even massage. "You… eating that damn ice cream on a stick you got from the canteen after lunch. There was melted vanilla cream dribbling from a corner of your mouth…" Discreetly, he shuffled about a little on his seat. "It was... it looked like..." He cleared his throat, yet his voice was still rough. "I felt inclined to prohibit them from ever giving you something like that again."

A chuckle rumbled deep in Zechs' chest, but he made no reply, his hands keeping busy. Treize groaned softly as he mellowed and grew pleasantly warm and relaxed. He had not realised how tired he was, and how sleepy, really… "Goodness, what was in those crists, valium? Did you do it on purpose?" he mumbled, sounding somewhat petulant.

"What, the ice cream?"

"Yes, the damn… ahhh… ice cream," Treize croaked, eyes drooping.

"Why would I?" Zechs returned innocently.

"To turn on your CO and leave him high 'n dry…" Treize yawned and sagged a bit more, head lolling, elbows propped against his knees, hands dangling between them. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?"

"Really? Now, why would I do such a thing?

"Because you are vengeful?"

Zechs just laughed. "C'mon, sir, let me drag you off to bed." Without awaiting the unevitable protest, he hooked one arm around Treize's shoulders and hauled him up. Not that Treize really needed this kind of help, but it was an excuse for Zechs to get his hands on him… oh, and he felt good, firm and warm, trim muscles shifting under the rough fabric of his uniform… Unnerved, Zechs heaved a short, sharp sigh. _NOT NOW_.

Bleary-eyed, Treize shook his head. "Let go… the computer…"

"I'll turn the thing off."

"Log out…" Treize reached out and hit a few buttons, too fast for anyone to follow. Zechs chanced a qick, greedy kiss to the back of Treize's neck, before hoisting him resolutely into the adjacent bedroom. Spartan, likehis newoffice – a bookshelf, nightstand with reading lamp, single bed, wardrobe. On suite bathroom with no tub but a shower. Treize only turned on the pomp when he had time and the need to impress. Here, buried in the bowels of the HQ bunkers, he had neither.

"Don't you trust me?" Zechs jabbed home even as he let go of Treize, who slumped onto the bed and sprawled out immediately, eyes heavy-lidded and closing even as he unholstered his personal weapon, shoved it under the pillow, and groped for the comforter. Zechs pulled the boots off him, pulled the comforter up, and leaned against the footend of the metal bedstead, folding his arms. "The computer. I could have logged you off."

"Habit," Treize muttered, already half asleep. "Staying?"

"What, on your couch?"

Treize clutched the folds of the cover and turned onto his side, face to the door. "Hmph…"

Zechs huffed. Of course, the couch it was. "Good night, sir." This time, he received no answer but the deep, even breathing of his friend. He returned to the office and shook out the blanket that lay bunched up on the couch. He was about to settle for the remaining hours of the night, when he caught sight of the almost empty crisp packet.

He frowned. Then he allowed himself a small smile as he crossed the room to fetch the small bag. He made himself as comfortable as possible on the couch that was a tad too short for his long frame, and began to lazily study the list of ingredients printed on the foil. Resulting in another scowl and a moment's hesitation, before he ate the last crisp and turned the packet over. His glance sliding over the garish illustration and screaming print…

To be caught by a single short line:

_Made in Russia._

He read and re-read, then laughed quietly and instead of discarding the foil, folded it up neatly. Treize had his foibles. And Zechs decided he would talk with Une in the morning, to order more of those crisps.

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The End

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